


i only see clouds

by rkvian



Series: Tired of Waking Up (Alone) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Reconciliation, set between Act I and Act II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rkvian/pseuds/rkvian
Summary: She wasn’t a bad child…quite the opposite. But there really isn’t anything you can do to persuade someone to love you.  This is why the rest of the times, she just forces herself to swallow the bitter poison that maybe her mother just didn’t love her.And what’s worse than being stuck with someone you don’t love?





	i only see clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was supposed to be part one of a 5+1 fic (Five times Hawke felt/woke up alone, and One time she didn't), but I decided against posting it in a single multiple-chaptered fic because this first part turned out to be a very loose fill. Part 3 - 6 are still in edit so I'm not sure when they will come out. :)

 

 _slowly, then all at once. the dark clouds depart, and the damage is done._  
_so pardon the dust while this all settles in. with a broken heart, transformation begins._[  
Sorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ERJpT76rGw), Sleeping at Last

 

i _._

_“Marian, honestly!”_

She burrowed her head further beneath her pillows, a morose noise sounding from the back of her throat as she wrapped her blankets tighter around her. Three consecutive loud **_thumps_** sounded on her door, and Leandra’s irate voice rang once more from the other side.

_“Maker’s breath, the gala will begin in a few hours.”_

It was the late morning—or early into the afternoon, more specifically—of their debut to the society of Kirkwall Nobility. Her mother had been fretting every single detail of the gala since their reacquisition of societal position and her childhood home, and had thus spent the last few days overlooking repairs, buying household necessities, and fitting the two of them ridiculous amounts of clothes ( _You’ve gotten so accustomed to barrel-sold clothes, pup_ , but hey but at least they were talking again).

However, while seeing her mother so happy brought feelings of satisfaction and content in her chest, she had little to no interest in the whole nobility-gala business. Hawke was self aware enough to know she will ultimately fail this whole Kirkwall version of The Game—you can buy your way off Lowtown after all, but you can’t just simply shrug the Lowtown off of you. Besides, the last time she attended a gala, the host turned out to be a Qunari conspirator who threw her in prison and tried to murder her and her friends.

Another set of knuckles rapped against her door, more insistent and evidently excited. _“Now, Hawke!”_ She moaned pitifully—of course Isabela just had to join the fray. _“Stop making Leandra wait!”_

Merrill’s voice piped in next, a hint of both amusement and worry mingled with the way the next words were spoken, _“Ooh, I think Isabela’s going to break your locks again.”_

_“Kitten! This is for emergencies.”_

She jolt up on her bed, muttering a quiet _Maker’s Breath_ , “Isabela, stop! That’s the fourth lock this week.”

_“Then get up!”_

“I _am_ up!” Was her frustrated reply, throwing her pillow against the door.

Leandra burst out giggling with Merrill, and soon the rattling on her door ceased as Isabela joined in. A louder curse escaped her lips, her protesting footfalls heavy as she slipped off her bed and padded the space of her room. Greeting them with a glare, Hawke opened her door and ignored the muttered quips from the three grinning women for the bathing room.

* * *

Hours later, after she had showered in expensive oils ( _imported from Antiva, Marian,_ Leandra chastised, _be nice_ ), had her hair styled in a loose chignon, manhandled into a cerulean heavy layered petticoat dress ( _it matches your eyes Hawke,_ Merrill commented _)_ and slipped into heels, she stood with her mother at their entrance to the newly renovated ballroom obscured unless the viewer would stand directly on the bottom steps of the stairs. From their location, the two of them could see the guests mingling with various level of interest. Some were obvious in their machinations; others, competent in their pacifistic façade.

Hawke could barely suppress the sneer on her face. They were assessing her family’s pull as a potential connection, no doubt. The only group of people who seemed to have no reservation with their display of genuine feelings was a portion of her group of friends. Merrill, Isabela, Varric, and Sebastian were gathered near the corner, chatting animatedly. The first three were all decked in clothes her mother had chosen for them which they good heartedly humored, except the Sebastian who opted to attend in his usual armor.

“I think Bethany would enjoy all these.”

Her heart lurched at the words. Like an elastic band, Leandra and Marian had been growing increasingly distant since losing Bethany during their grand escape from Lothering, more so amid the fallout of losing Carver to the Grey Wardens under the caverns of the Deep Roads. Stretching farther and farther apart, she was aware it was just a matter of time until one of them yields and relinquishes their hold.

Ever altruistic, ever kind, Hawke awaited the violent snap; aware that she would be the one to sport the heart-wound where the rubber marked against her. It was easier to take the pain whenever she braced for it—a fact she had long since discovered.

So she stood there next to her mother, forcing herself laughter because it was easier to deal with than the guilt.

“She really would have, Mother.”

“Carver should have been here too.”

Another hitched breath.  _My fault, my fault._ “We can always try to send him a letter of invitation.”

“You think they’ll allow him to come home?”

She shrugged. “There won’t be an upset with the darkspawn forever. When the Deep Roads are calm again, I suppose they’ll allow him to visit. If not, why don’t I stage a kidnap instead?”

Her mother turned to her with a horrified look. “Goodness, Marian, you don’t mean that, do you?”

“That depends on how much you want to see him.”

She was hoping to earn a genuine smile—the two of them weren’t playing the Game after all—instead all she got was a weary look, like her mother was contemplating her thoughts and her words, before settling into a somber sigh.

“Mother? Are you feeling alright?”

“You…changed.” Leandra spoke quietly, turning her gaze back to the congregation of people. “You grew up when I wasn’t looking, Marian. I think Malcolm, and Carver and Bethany would have been very proud of the person you became.”

“And…what about you? Are you proud of me?”

There was a pause at the question, and silence hung at the space between them.

Leandra made an injured noise at the back of her throat. Before she could say another word however, Bodahn announced his presence.

“Viscount Dumar has arrived, Lady Amell. Would you like me to announce the commencement of tonight’s event?”

Marian could only look at the perfect noblewoman image her Mother projected; the tilt of her chin, her regal stance, the almost unreadable look on her face. Since their arrival at Kirkwall, all sorts of decisions befell on only one pair of shoulders. Marian was to choose whether to work for mercenaries or smugglers, where they should go, who to recruit on specific jobs, what a decision to an option should be.

But not this one. Clinging into the fragile unspoken venture between a daughter and her mother, the result and consequence of this conversation falls solely on Leandra’s shoulders, however she wants this to turn out.

So she waits.

( _Give us a moment, my daughter and I are in a middle of a conversation._ )

( _This is far more important than these nobles._ )

( _We might not get this chance again._ )

Instead, Leandra nodded, “Make the announcement. However wait for my signal before requesting my presence on the podium.”

“At once.” The dwarf nodded and shot a concerned look which she dismissed by shaking her head.

Marian turned away, offering herself a consoling mirthless smile. She should have known, of course. She knew, but it didn’t matter because she could still feel her heart churning. _Maker…_

Affection was a curious thing in their relationship. Sometimes she spent her nights wondering if she had done her mother wrong—she did let Malcolm and Bethany die after all—but that didn’t account the terseness of their space even when she was a child. _She wasn’t a bad child_ …quite the opposite. But there really isn’t anything you can do to urge someone to love you.  This is why the rest of the times she just forces herself to swallow the bitter poison that maybe her mother just didn’t love her.

And what’s worse than being stuck with someone you don’t love?

Leandra gave a pained noise, reaching to grasp Marian’s hand in both of hers. Instead, the daughter kept her eyes fixated to the light green layered dress Merrill wore, the bodice-tight navy blue dress with flowing skirt on Isabela, and the taupe shaded dwarven clothing on Varric, with a front cut similarly to his casual clothes for his manly, manly chest hair.

She expected the older woman to apologize, to move this conversation in another time—but she doesn’t. Instead, Leandra inhaled deeply and spoke:

“If you think I have a favorite child you’re wrong. Malcolm and I never had favorites—I know how it destroyed Gamlen. It’s just that _you_ have always been a _strong person_ , and the twins weren’t. They needed guidance when you learned greatly from your mistakes. They searched for their own paths while you braved each step like an adventure.” Her mother waited until she lifted her head and they were looking eye to eye. “Bethany was not a fool to fear magic but you _embraced_ it and now it’s intricately carved as a part of you. Then whenever Malcolm took you and Bethany for lessons, Carver became jealous it wasn’t something he could be part of–as mother I had to be more gentle and understanding to make sure he doesn’t feel alone. Oh Marian…

You never seemed like you needed help, love. Now I know that you do.”

* * *

 

Several hours later, her lips curved at the approaching person, still clad in the usual regalia. Tipping her glass flask toward Aveline, she greeted with a wide grin too uninhibited for her to still be sober. “Guard Captain.”

“The noblemen aren’t giving you much trouble, I hope?”

“Not really.” She paused, wondering if she should continue. With a shrug, she grinned widely, “Well, there was this nobleman…Monsieur Lefebvrè? Orlesian blood from his _père_ I think. Very rude. Insulted my great-great-grand Uncle Aston’s nose and my Aunt Geneva’s oddly wide teeth gap. As their predecessor, I felt compelled to defend their honor, so I may have _accidentally_ sneezed a hex towards him.”

“Hawke.” Aveline stared at her wide eyed, pure disbelief written on her face. Realizing there were no punch lines, her next words were hissed quietly. “There are _Templars_ here.”

“Believe me Captain I know. Did you think he would get away with a mere hex if there wasn’t?”

As if on cue, the person of interest emerged from the hall directing to the refreshment chamber, his cheeks burning in embarrassment as he struggled to contain his sudden urge to sneeze and cough large amount of snot and mucus. The crowd parted at the obvious wetness of his handkerchief, musicians stuttering out of their focus as murmuring broke loudly in the place.

Sniffing heavily—both Hawke and Aveline failed to suppress their snort even as the man raised his chin menacingly at them—Monsieur Lefebvrè declared, “I fear I must warn you that your man servants had done a poor job at cleaning your _aachooo_. I mean your _aachoo_ —oh for Maker’s— _aachoo_ , good riddance to this place and the company.” Like a child, his stomped his way out of the venue, laughter following behind his wake.

The Guard-Captain had no immediate response to that, only a shake of her head. “You’re impossible.”

Hawke gave Aveline a sly smile, “Mother doesn’t need acquaintances like him.”

“And can you look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do this because she set up a date for between you and Lefebvrè’s son?”

She presses a hand against her chest, feigning being offended. “Why my dear Guard Captain, that’s quite an accusation.”

The Guard Captain gave her a stern look that broke when she began to snicker. Not long after, they settled into amicable conversation. Hawke herself had to take rounds to assist and talk to the guests arriving and leaving, sometimes finding herself personally offering refreshments to the nobles, to which she earned scathing remarks and a frown from her Mother.

Aveline was still on the same spot when she returned. “Leandra looks a lot younger today, doesn’t she? She looked so glum since…Carver. It’s good that she’s having fun.”

“Don’t I know that.” She gave the Guard Captain a wry smile. “Sometimes I reckon she’s become much more of a mother to other people than me.”

Aveline gave her a grim look, “You don’t mean that Hawke.”

“Yes, I do, actually.”

She watched her Mother herd Merrill and Sebastian back to their table, then asked one of the helpers to serve them another round of dessert. Isabela said something with a raucous grin, causing Varric and Leandra to laugh aloud.

Hawke’s lips curves, and for once since losing her brother, the mirth reaches her eyes. “It isn’t always a bad thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
